Packer crossed to the door, then stopped. ‘By the way, what happened today that upset you so much?’
‘Ah, no — just a moment of depression. Le cafard, mon cher. Only fools are permanently happy.’
‘Goodnight, Charles.’ As Packer opened the door he knew that Pol had not been telling the truth. He wondered what this sly French bastard now had in mind for poor Ryderbeit. But the matter was still in Packer’s hands: and Packer had already decided what he was going to do.
CHAPTER 18
It was 8.30 p.m. when Packer got back to the Chesa; but few people in Klosters dined much before 9.00, so he ran no more than the usual risk of missing Sarah.
The desk clerk informed him that Miss Laval-Smith had returned an hour ago, but had since come down again and left her key. A quantity of skiing equipment had also been delivered to their room in the past hour, Packer was told. He took his key and thanked the clerk, just hoping Sarah hadn’t had the chance to open the parcels already.
She had left her mark on the room with as much unruly panache as Pol: the dressing-table was littered with bottles and jars and greasy cotton balls; while both beds were draped with dresses which she had discarded for the evening. He reflected, with mournful irony, that while in her mews flat in Knightsbridge she maintained a regime of tyrannical tidiness — even ordering Packer never to leave the lavatory seat up, because that was ‘ugly’ — the moment she was abroad, liberated by foreign servants in strange hotels, she lapsed into slovenly detente.
The only contradictory note was a message scrawled in blood-red lipstick across the bathroom mirror: ‘DO YOU ALWAYS LEAVE YOUR DIRTY WATER IN AFTER HAVINGABATH???’ — the final three words elided for lack of space. She had added no indication of where she had gone, or when she would be returning.
Then he saw the parcels. There were three of them, piled on the luggage stand inside the door, and they had obviously not been disturbed. There were two zipped-up plastic packs, like golf bags, each bearing the distinctive red and white markings of Hartmann Products — manufacturers of the latest make of short, high-speed, fibreglass ski, with patent safety bindings.
The third parcel was about the size of a cigar box, wrapped in plain brown paper, sealed with Sellotape, and with no inscription.
Packer made sure the door was locked; then pulled down the top pack and ripped open the zip. What he saw caused him to blink in amazement. He let go of the bag and part of its contents caught him a sharp blow on the shins. It was a short, fibreglass ski, painted the same brilliant red and white as the bag.
For several seconds he stared, bewildered; then he unzipped the second pack, and found another, identical pair of skis. In each bag was also a pair of aluminium sticks with red and white plastic hand straps. For a moment he tested the sticks, to see if the handles unscrewed or came to pieces, in case Pol had concealed in them some ingenious conversion of the Armalite. But they seemed innocent enough. He tossed them back on the stand, and now turned to the brown-paper parcel.
It had clearly been wrapped by a professional, and in order to open it Packer would have to use Sarah’s nail scissors to cut the tightly sealed corners. But first he took the precaution of sliding his fingers over the smooth sides of the box, feeling for the tell-tale strip of metal spring that would release the detonator. There was none.
He cut the paper edges, still taking no chances, and peeled off the wrapping. Inside was a dark blue leather case with the small gilt signature of GRIMA engraved on the top left-hand corner. He snapped open the catch and looked down at a cushion of tissue paper. Lying on it was a card covered in a messy Biro scrawl, in French: ‘Cher Monsieur Packer! Forgive an old man who is still young enough to enjoy playing games. Give this to your beloved Sara!’ — he had misspelt it ‘Sara’ — ‘and remember the words of Charles Pol: Women are even more treacherous than policemen and politicians — if you cannot seduce them, buy them!’
Packer lifted the tissue paper. On the black velvet lining was spread a necklace made up of cubes of pale gold, sprouting fibrous stars that were cleverly asymmetrical. In the centre was an emerald the size of a little fingernail. His first reaction was to wonder, idiotically, how Pol knew that emeralds were Sarah’s favourite jewel.
He put the card in his pocket, replaced the tissue paper, closed the box, and put it away in a drawer of the dressing-table; then walked over between the beds and lifted the telephone. ‘Hotel Silvretta, please.’ While he waited he was surprised at how calm he felt. The phone crackled in his ear: ‘Hotel Silvretta, bitte.’
‘Monsieur Cassis, please.’
‘One minute, please.’ The voice was a bored purr, and the silence that followed seemed very long. ‘Hello, please. I regret, Monsieur Cassis has vacated the hotel.’
‘What!’ Packer controlled himself. ‘He was there only twenty minutes ago — there has been some mistake.’
‘One minute, please.’
Packer sat down on the bed; his knees had begun to shake.
‘Hello, please. Yes, Monsieur Cassis has just left the hotel.’
‘With his luggage? It’s impossible! He must have just gone out. Did he say when he’d be back?’ He found he was shouting, and steadied himself. ‘I wish to leave an urgent message for Monsieur Cassis. From a Mister —’ he hesitated, wondering if the fraudulent Burton was any longer relevant.
The Swiss voice, in its excruciatingly accurate English, cut him short: ‘I regret, sir. Monsieur Cassis has checked out. He is no longer in the hotel.’
‘For Christ’s sake! Did he pay his bill?’ Packer almost heard the outraged intake of breath the other end.
‘Certainly. His bill is in order.’
‘What about his luggage? Did he leave with any luggage?’
The voice grew prim and officious. ‘I am not permitted to discuss our clients’ affairs. If you wish to make further enquiries you must address yourself to the manager.’
‘Wait a minute!’ Packer shouted, before the man had time to hang up. ‘This is a matter of desperate urgency. Did Monsieur Cassis leave a forwarding address?’
‘One minute, please.’ Again it seemed a very long time before the voice came back. ‘Hello, please. Monsieur Cassis has left no forwarding address.’
Packer stared at his feet and said, ‘Thank you,’ and laid the receiver back in its cradle. Then he went into the bathroom, filled the basin with icy water and plunged his whole head in, still wearing his sweater and anorak. In the glass, behind Sarah’s graffiti, his face was white. He took the hand towel and slowly dried the back of his neck.
The craziest thing of all, he thought, was that he should be so shocked and upset at being let off the hook. Half an hour ago he had been given the assignment to kill a man — unquestionably the most dramatic assignment he had ever received. And now he was free: free, with two brand-new sets of Hartmann racing skis, and a present for Sarah that must have cost several thousand pounds. The trouble was, it didn’t make sense. It made no bloody sense at all.
He tried, as in the heat of battle, to rationalize, calculate the odds, evaluate the enemy’s tactics. But who was the enemy? Pol? The Ruler?
He had thought of going straight back to the Silvretta and demanding to see Pol’s room; but he remembered those watery official eyes behind the desk and knew it would be useless. It was possible that Pol had instructed the clerk to lie to all callers; but far more probable that Pol had indeed left — had already planned to leave before Packer had arrived — and that the open suitcase he had seen had merely been the last of Pol’s packing.
No, one thing was certain: Charles Pol was scared, and was running for his life. The skis, and the expensive trinket from Grima, had perhaps been more of a reflex action — a devious grand geste, rather than a calculated deception. Otherwise Pol’s motives — his supposed contract to kill the Ruler, the scrupulous ritual at Aalau, and his joint signature with Packer for half a million pounds — all now seemed as confused and improbable as that first grotesque image of him running
amok in the tulip field.
Packer took off his anorak and sweater, finished drying his face and hair, put on a clean shirt and the linen jacket which Sarah had bought for him a year ago, and went down again to look for her.
The tearoom, restaurant, and downstairs bar were even noisier and more crowded than before: the girls lean and tanned, with small hips and strong good legs, well exhibited in their uniforms of skin-tight stretch-pants; the men confident and well nourished, of no determinate age or nationality, but sharing an easy camaraderie — the hallmark of that society circuit that embraces the playboy pens of the Western world. Packer eyed them with weary contempt, relieved that he was not one of them, yet resentful that they did not seek him out for membership.
In the bar he bumped into a handsome man who splashed whisky over his sleeve. The man laughed and Packer clenched his fist. Easy, he thought: this is neither the time nor place to start picking at that social chip on your shoulder. He found the bar, and after using his elbows with some agility, managed to get a glass of mineral water. It was several more minutes before he saw Sarah.
She was squeezed up against the wall in a corner, her scarlet lips parted in their practised smile; her dark hair arranged with raffish abandon; wearing a wide-sleeved Peruvian peasant shirt, loosely knotted emerald-green cravat, and white bell-bottomed trousers that skilfully made the best of her hips while concealing her ankles, which were her least lovely feature. She had an almost empty glass of white wine in her hand.
The man she was talking to had his back to Packer. He was very tall, and his face, which was bent down almost at right angles as he talked to her, was hidden under an immense sealskin hat with the wide brim turned down over his ears. The rest of his long body was sheathed in a suit of brownish-grey sharkskin, over a pleated white shirt, unbuttoned to the navel and revealing, on his hairless olive chest, a chain with a gold Star of David. Despite the concealed nightclub lighting, he was wearing dark glasses. It was a few seconds before Packer realized that it was Ryderbeit.
The Rhodesian had been talking eagerly to Sarah. When he saw Packer his expression behind the dark glasses was mute; he did not smile, just nodded. ‘Evening, soldier-boy. You don’t have to make the introductions — we already done it ourselves.’
Sarah had turned, and it seemed to Packer that her smile became slightly insecure, like a window coming loose at the hinges. ‘Hallo. You know each other then?’ She sounded uncertain of her ground.
Ryderbeit was drinking a white spirit, but he showed no trace of drunkenness. He bent his face back over Sarah and said, ‘I was just telling Miss Laval-Smith about the most beautiful and dangerous creature in the world —’ the fingers of his left hand traced a quick slithering movement through the air, and Sarah gave an exaggerated shudder — ‘our old friend, the green mamba. I knew a bastard once who ran over one on a motorbike, and the thing came after him and caught up with him, and they both presented themselves to the Great Reaper a few minutes later.’
‘Horrible!’ Sarah said brightly. ‘At home we get lots of adders in the summer, but I can’t even stand grass snakes. They give me the creeps.’
Ryderbeit lifted his head and cackled. ‘Penis envy, my darling!’ He stood leering down at her, while she smiled back, with artificial amusement. Then she turned to Packer. ‘Your friend here has been telling me some really dreadful things. All about people having their livers eaten while they were still alive.’
Ryderbeit swallowed his drink and handed Packer the empty glass. ‘Be a friend and get me another, soldier. Kirschwasser. A nice big one with a lot of nothing.’
‘Get your own,’ Packer growled.
Sarah gave him a quick frown, then smiled and handed him her own glass too. ‘I’d like some more wine, Owen. Chablis, please.’
Ryderbeit rocked back on his heels and showed his small canine teeth. ‘Good on you, soldier. See you in about a month’s time.’
Packer paused dramatically; then took both their glasses and began to shoulder his way back towards the bar. When he returned five minutes later, Ryderbeit was alone, leaning against the wall and staring at the floor.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Packer said, with morose triumph. ‘That old Red Sea Pedestrian charm failed you at the last minute, and she’s gone off with a skiing instructor?’
Ryderbeit reached for his fresh glass, emptied it in a gulp, then stood shaking his head. ‘Holy Moses, boy! I don’t say she’s my type, but I could sure sink the sausage there! I bet she performs like a can of worms with an outboard motor.’
‘Where’s she gone?’
Ryderbeit shook his head again. ‘Big bald sod with a couple of plums in his mouth came over and called her “darling”, and she called him “DJ”, which appears to be short for D’Arcy-James. D'Arcy-bloody-James!’ he repeated in a shrill moan; then looked at Packer with a pitying smile. ‘As I said, soldier, I’ve been round the track with three lovelies like your Sarah, and I’ll tell you something for nothing. They’re all hard, fully paid-up professional bitches. Leave them to the D’Arcy-Jameses of this world, and all the other Hooray-Henrys!’
Packer bowed. ‘I’m deeply indebted to you for your sentiments, Samuel. Let’s get on to a lighter subject like, for instance, our friend Charles Pol.’
‘So? What’s he done?’
‘He’s buggered off, that’s all.’
‘And the guns?’ Ryderbeit said, in a hushed whisper, even against the music.
‘I think you’d better come upstairs, Sammy, to my room. Sarah’ll be busy for hours. I’ve got something rather amusing to show you.’
He put Sarah’s full glass of Chablis on the floor in the corner, and led the way back to the door.
‘Frankly, boy, I don’t see what our problem is.’ Ryderbeit had come over and was sitting on the bed opposite Packer, where he refreshed his glass from what was left of the bottle of vodka that Sarah had bought in the Duty Free at Heathrow. He was still wearing his hat but had taken off his dark glasses. His good eye now had a raw glitter, though he seemed otherwise in full control.
‘Just look at it realistically,’ he went on: ‘What have we got and what have we lost? Well, we both got ourselves a nice few smackers in our respective banks for doing fuck all. We’ve had a week’s skiing on the firm. We’ve each picked up a bloody good camera and pair of kraut binoculars. And now it seems we’ve had a last-minute bonus — two sets of Hartmann skis. And those things aren’t cheap, I tell you.’ He leaned back on the pillow and drank contentedly.
‘And another thing,’ he went on: ‘I also got myself a lovely new identity — Daniel Spice-Handler, remember? Company Director, Tel Aviv.’ He drained the glass, then held it up and twirled it lovingly between his long supple fingers. ‘I just don’t see what you’re getting so windy about, soldier. Fat Man’s scarpered. So what? He’s not our bloody nanny.’
Packer looked at the lean hooked profile under the brim of the sealskin hat, and wondered if Ryderbeit were just a fool who managed to survive, or a cunning scoundrel who played at being a fool. Since coming up to the room, Packer had told him everything — with the exception of Pol’s little gift from Grima; and he had only omitted it because he felt that, in some ambiguous way, it humiliated him in his relations with Sarah. Besides, Ryderbeit would probably insist on reselling it and splitting the profit.
Packer said at last, ‘So you really think we can walk out of this as though nothing has happened?’
‘Why not? We ain’t done anything illegal. Who’s gonna stop us?’
‘His Serene Imperial Highness in the chalet up the hill — for one. And he’s enough, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Sod His Serene Highness,’ Ryderbeit said cheerfully. ‘This is Switzerland, remember — not the bloody Sands of Araby.’
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s Switzerland or Swaziland. A man like the Ruler doesn’t do his own laundry, you know.’
Ryderbeit turned his head and gave Packer a sleepy stare. ‘All right, soldier, piss off back to Lo
ndon with that rich little bitch of yours and start living.’
‘Sammy,’ Packer said, with grim patience, ‘you say you know Charles Pol pretty well. You ever known him scared?’
Ryderbeit got up and poured himself the last of Sarah’s vodka. ‘Like you said he looked this evening, you mean?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you said yourself you thought he just looked tired and ill. I’d say just that — too much booze. I’ve seen it plenty of times.’
‘He was scared, Sammy. Shit scared. You and I know what it’s like. Fear’s something you don’t see — you feel it, like sex appeal. And Pol had it tonight — badly. Fear, I mean,’ he added; and Ryderbeit laughed, without humour.
‘Okay, soldier — you were hired to do the thinking. So think up something good and let’s hear it.’
‘You thought it up, Sammy — that idea of yours up in the hut this afternoon when you poked your gun at me. You may have been right after all. For some reason the Ruler wanted to fake his own assassination, and he picked Pol, because the old Frenchman has a pretty wide experience in these matters and Pol somehow got on to me. You, of course, were half on his pay roll already.’
‘So why’s Pol skipped?’ Ryderbeit broke in.
‘I can only guess. But I think he went up to “Le Soupir du Soleil” today to get his final orders, and when he got there he found that the Ruler had changed his mind. The operation was off. Now, Pol’s no man’s fool — nor has he exactly led a sheltered life. Yet something today convinced him that he was in mortal peril. So he did the only thing he could do — he played for time. He agreed to help the Ruler clear up the evidence for him. And that was shrewd, because the Ruler’s the sort of man who likes things to be done properly, and it would obviously be tidier all round if he got his hirelings to start killing themselves off, instead of having to use his own people to do it. And as I told you, he’s planning to start with you, using me as the triggerman.’
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